Rearview
by the.eye.does.not.SEE
Summary: After her divorce, Jane returns home to New York to explore a new life.
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N** : As always with my stories, this one has nothing at all to do with the show. Please enjoy!_

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It was a warm, sunny summer morning the day her marriage dissolved. She sat in the air-conditioned conference room overlooking the Potomac and she kept her eyes on the man sitting across from her. It was her husband's lawyer; they never sat her and Kurt in chairs that directly faced each other during these meetings, for obvious reasons.

Despite the precautions, despite the tiptoeing, despite the media, it had been a rather amicable divorce—that was the adjective people always used, wasn't it? _Amicable_. That's the phrase his office would be using in the upcoming press release, she knew that for a fact. She'd seen him looking over a draft earlier when they'd been waiting in the lobby. She'd almost laughed. Of course he was working _now_. Of course he was trying to get out ahead of his own divorce before it had even been finalized.

She could not _wait_ to get out of DC.

She checked her watch. Twenty hours until her flight back to New York. That was too many hours. She should've scheduled a redeye—she'd thought about it—but in the end, she'd been too paranoid about something going wrong today to move her flight up even a few hours. Eight years of being a politician's wife had taught her never to trust any deal, not until it was signed and made public.

And here they were sitting, ready to sign, ready to get it all over with—and waiting on the notary. Ryan, her lawyer, was pissed. He was sitting incredibly still in the seat next to her and she knew he only did that when he got angry. Usually he was pacing, looking through his notes, tapping his pencil. He was always moving, aways working. That was one of the reasons she'd hired him. That, and the fact that he'd had a battle plan for this divorce that was so detailed it rivaled most bona fide war plans.

Kurt was getting antsy, too. She could see him out of the corner of her eye; he kept shifting in his chair and adjusting his tie. He had a lunch meeting with one of his least favorite caucuses in less than an hour; if they dragged this out much longer, he'd be stuck in traffic trying to get back across town. Without thinking, her mind started doing calculations, trying to figure out exactly how much longer he could stand to sit here and wait before she remembered that she didn't have to do that anymore. She didn't have to be on top of his schedule. She didn't have to find five minutes during the day where he was free so they could attempt to act like they still had a marriage. Or, more recently, so they could pass on messages from their lawyers. He had an entire staff to deal with his every problem, including his impending divorce. She only had herself to rely on, and though she knew she could have had her lawyer pass on such missives, she preferred to slog through DC traffic to Kurt's office just to tell him in person.

 _At least_ I'm _making an effort, see?_

She didn't think he'd noticed the implicit message, but then, that was the entire point. He didn't notice much that didn't directly relate to his current term, or his next term, or the campaign on the horizon.

She closed her eyes, feeling a smile grace her lips. It was a revelation, still, each time she remembered she wouldn't have to go through another year of campaigning. Another year traveling all over the state, another year of smiling until her face cramped, another year of standing in the background, another year of coming forward only to introduce him before he spoke, or to receive an obligatory kiss on the cheek, _just so_ , in a way that was scientifically deemed the right amount of romantic and politic.

It wasn't that she'd wanted to be in the spotlight instead. She just hadn't wanted to spend her life in darkness, either. And she absolutely hadn't wanted to play a background character in her own marriage.

It hadn't been so bad, at the beginning. It had been downright exciting, the first year. The switch from New York to DC had been hard, and leaving the FBI had been even harder, but at the time, they'd had a purpose, a dream, something more than simply getting re-elected every two years. Something they had _shared_. She wasn't sure when things had started to fall apart in earnest, but she knew their marriage had been chipping away for years before she'd even considered ending it. The fact that Kurt had simply nodded and said _Sure, honey_ when she'd first brought up separating had only proved her point. It had taken him a good five minutes to look up from the speech he'd been editing and realize what it was he'd so easily agreed to.

There was a commotion in the hallway outside the conference room, and Jane looked over, peering through the opaque glass to try and see what was happening. All she could see were dark shapes moving, and then—thank God—the door was being pushed open and there was their notary, spilling apologies and sweat.

"So sorry I'm late, everyone. I got caught behind the motorcade and you know how that thing moves…"

He rifled through his briefcase, sorting out what he needed, before taking the stacks of paper from the lawyers. He looked things over quickly—they'd already reviewed the details a hundred times—and then he waved them both forward, pointing to the different copies and the places they would need to sign.

Jane was having trouble listening because of a sudden buzzing in her ears, but helpfully, there were bright yellow tabs indicating exactly where to write. And then, after she'd signed beside every tab, there was Ryan, presenting her with one more form.

"Just here, Jane," he indicated, pointing to a line at the bottom of a sheet.

Scanning the page, she felt her heart leap and her mouth suddenly go dry. She didn't know how she'd forgotten about this, though with all they'd haggled over in the divorce, it made sense that this early decision had fallen to the background.

 _Jane Doe._

She hadn't seen her name written like that in years. It made her ache in a strange place, somewhere deep in her psyche, a hurt she hadn't realized was there until it was finally being massaged away.

Even now, she didn't know why she'd taken Kurt's name in the first place. She hadn't liked it, not even when she'd been a newlywed. His name had always sounded clunky and awkward tacked onto hers, as if it were created by a high schooler trying out fiction for the first time. It never had the right ring to it. She'd gotten used it, over the years, of course. She had learned to turn her head whenever someone said _Mrs. Weller_. But it had always felt a little strange, a little fake, as if she were pretending to be someone she wasn't. It had taken her years, but eventually she recognized that feeling for what it was: a need for full independence. She couldn't be defined solely by him anymore—not by his job, not by his name, not by the lack of children she bore him. From now on, she would be defined by herself and only by herself.

Signing the paper to return to her maiden name felt, finally, like she was coming home.

The notary reviewed the documents after they'd finished signing, his stamp and pen at the ready. They all watched as he went about his work, and once he was finished, the aides went around and collected everything that would need to be filed with the court. The lawyers exchanged pleasantries, and then, almost without warning, the three of them and their aides filed out, explaining, _We'll give you some time alone now_.

Jane opened her mouth to protest—she didn't _want_ time alone, not with him—but then the door was shut behind them, and the lawyers and notary were nothing more than dark figures behind opaque glass, and there she was, alone in a room standing next to her newly minted ex-husband.

She didn't know what was supposed to happen now. She glanced nervously at him and felt the odd impulse to shake his hand, the way school kids did after soccer matches. _Good game_.

Instead she clasped her hands together, wringing them roughly but subtly, the way she'd learned to do on the campaign trail when she was getting too uncomfortable in front of all the cameras but wasn't allowed to show it. There were no cameras here, thank God. But there was still him, standing there, looking at her. Somehow his gaze now felt worse than all those hundreds of cameras had in the past.

"So," he said after a minute.

She nodded. "So."

He opened his mouth to say more but instead ended up saying nothing. Just for something to do, she walked over to the glass wall over looking the river, watching as the water rushed and swirled so far beneath them.

She could feel him following her, slowly and at a distance. He stopped a few feet back and she was grateful for it.

"Are you going to miss it?" he asked quietly.

She didn't know what he was referring to—the river, the city, their marriage?—and so she simply shrugged. It was as much of an answer as she could manage for any of the three questions.

They stood like that for a few minutes, staring out the window, staring down at all the people and things below. She was not looking forward to going back out into the world. She didn't expect there to be reporters outside—they'd done a good job of keeping things rather clandestine these past few months—but she knew once the story broke, she wouldn't have that luxury. She was anxious in advance, just thinking about the overzealous attention.

At least it will blow over, she thought. At least he's not that important.

 _Yet._

That was always the caveat, that was always the fear that hung over her: that the pressure might be bad now, but it would always— _always_ —get worse. There was always another race, always another step up on the ladder, always some higher position to aspire to. She was one of the few people who knew he would be running for Senate the year after next, and once he attained that, they all knew what was next. He'd serve on committees and spearhead legislation and be a keynote speaker at the conventions. He would tick all the boxes until, one day, maybe six years from now, maybe ten, she would open the paper to see he'd achieved what everyone who went into politics hoped to achieve. He would have a long speech, a good speech, and there would not be a single perfunctory line in it about how he couldn't have done it without the support of his loving wife.

That made her smile. She was perfectly fine being a bullet point in his personal history, sandwiched in between Congress and the Senate. She had no desire to be a First Lady. She couldn't even handle being a congressman's wife.

"Traffic should have cleared a bit by now," he said finally, breaking the silence. "If you want, I can get you a cab—"

"I can get my own cab, Kurt."

"Right. Of course." He nodded, and she watched his reflection in the window as he turned his head away, down to the floor. She felt a stab of guilt. He was trying to be nice. He was trying to take care of her, while he still could. Just one last time.

"You can walk me down to the lobby," she told him, and then she returned to the conference table to gather her jacket and purse. By the time she got to the door, he was already there, holding it open for her. She stepped through and held her head up as she walked through the hallway, past the receptionist, and into the elevator.

There were few people on the ground floor apart from security staff. They nodded politely as she and Kurt passed, but Jane did not nod back. She was of one mind, and that mind wanted to get outside, get into a cab, and get back to her hotel as soon as possible. Less than twenty hours and she would be out of this city.

But there were no cabs outside. It was summer, and the city was swarming with tourists; cabs didn't bother venturing this far out of the city center when fares were so easy to get if you simply waited down by the National Mall and Pennsylvania Avenue. She was regretting her impulsive interruption of him earlier; he could've gotten a car here in five minutes. In fact, his car _was_ here; Jane could see Harry, Kurt's driver, sitting behind the wheel of the black sedan waiting on the curb.

She could feel him hesitating behind her as they stood out on the sidewalk. He wanted to offer her a ride, but they both knew from earlier how she would respond. She didn't blame him for not wanting to be rejected yet once more today.

But she also couldn't take standing here out in the open for one more second. The building she had just exited was very well-known for being one of the best divorce firms in the district. There wouldn't even be any dots to connect; all someone had to do was get a picture of her standing out here, looking alone and lost, and that was the story.

"Do you mind?" she asked quickly, tilting her head towards the car. "You know I wouldn't ask, but—"

"Of course," he answered, already motioning to Harry.

"I'm sorry," she apologized, even as she hurried to the door the driver was holding open for her. "I just can't wait out there like that, not after…"

"I understand," Kurt told her.

He slid into the seat after her, and for a moment after Harry shut the door behind them, they were alone. Completely alone. She looked over at him and found him staring back at her, seeing her, it felt like, for the first time in a very long time.

"Please believe me when I say I understand, Jane," he whispered. "I really do."

She closed her eyes, taking in a shuddering breath. She knew he wasn't talking about the car ride anymore. And she wanted to call him a liar for pretending to understand, but she knew now—she had seen it in his eyes—that he wasn't pretending. He really did understand, after all this time. Right at the end.

 _Perfect timing, Kurt_ , she thought sourly to herself, and she had to stare out the tinted window in order to blink back tears.

She blew out a shaky breath when Harry got in and started the car, using the sound of the engine turning over to mask it. For twenty minutes, they drove in silence towards her hotel, listening to the ambient noises outside the car and the quiet classic music Harry always played within.

It wasn't until they were pulling up at the curb to her hotel that Jane realized just how far out of Kurt's way her detour had taken him. He had that lunch meeting in less than a half-hour and he'd never make it on time coming from this direction. But when she tried to tell him, tried to apologize, he waved her away.

"It's fine," he said, and she stared.

He had never said _It's fine_ and meant it in his life.

"What is going on?" she demanded.

He sighed, turning to look out the window. And then, having made up his mind, he faced forward again.

"Harry?" he asked. "Can you give us a second, please?"

Dutifully, the driver stepped out, shut the door, and waited by the hood of the car. They both watched him, waiting until they knew he was far enough away so he wouldn't be able to hear.

"What are you doing?" Jane hissed. "You never miss meetings. Especially not bipartisan ones. You need to go, you need to hurry—"

"I'm not going, Jane."

"Not _going_? Are you insane? You can't miss—"

"I'm not missing anything," he interrupted quietly. "I asked Carl to go in my place." At the incredulous look on her face, he explained with a sigh, "When I scheduled it, I thought it would be a good distraction after our appointment, but now…" He shook his head. "If you must know, Jane, I cleared my schedule for today. And tomorrow."

"Oh."

She couldn't think of anything to say. She couldn't think of one day in their entire marriage that he'd ever cleared his schedule for anything personal.

" _Why_?" she couldn't help but wonder, dumbfounded to the point of blunt.

"Why?" he laughed without humor. "Have you already forgotten what happened this morning? We sign papers and you're already onto the next thing?"

"No," she muttered stubbornly, even though it was true, all she could think about was her flight tomorrow morning. "I'm just surprised, is all," she explained. "You never take personal days for anything. I've seen you go in to vote when you have the flu."

"Well, I thought the end of my marriage was a good excuse to take a personal day or two. But maybe cable news is right. Maybe I really am being too sensitive."

She tried to stifle a smile at his flippant response, but couldn't quite manage it. It was little things like this that reminded her why she'd fallen in love with him in the first place, and why, sometimes, she felt that she still loved him. There was always a little part of him that no one else got to see except her. But she had cherished that unique little part of him for too long, steadfastly ignoring how quickly it was shrinking and being taken over by the rest day by day.

"I should go," she said finally. "Leave you to your day."

"Leave me to sit alone at home and stare at the walls, you mean."

"I'm pretty sure I'll be doing the exact same thing in my hotel room, so there's no use fighting over who's more pathetic today, congressman."

They shared a brief smile. Then she reached out for his shoulder, squeezed it tight, and leaned over to press a kiss to his cheek. He smelled good. She recognized the cologne he wore—very sparing amounts, something you could only smell when you were this close to him—and she breathed him in again. She could feel his hand, now resting atop hers on his shoulder. She knew she should move back, should break their contact, should open the door and walk away, but sitting here next to him was so much easier. No one could see them in here. No one could judge them or take pictures or write articles.

She closed her eyes when she felt his other hand move to cup the back of her head, his fingers tangling themselves in her hair. She swallowed hard, knowing she had to do something, had to say something, had to stop this before it started.

"Kurt."

It was all she could get out. His thumb was behind her ear now, brushing ever so gently against the smooth skin there, just the way she liked. She didn't open her eyes but she could hear him, feel him, sense him shifting towards her. She could feel his forehead press against hers, then his nose. She could taste his breath, warming her chin.

"Jane…"

Her heart was pounding in her chest so fiercely that she knew he must be able to feel it. It was all she could hear in her ears. It was the only sound in the world apart from his voice and her own.

"Kurt, please…" She swallowed hard, forcing calm on her twisting stomach, on her frantically beating heart, if only for a second. Just one second, so she could do this with a clear head. She touched his cheek, the same place where she'd kissed him, and met his eyes. She could feel his fingers tighten—around hers on his shoulder, and in her hair—and she wanted to tell him to let go, even as she relished the strength with which he held her. Where had this side of him been all their marriage?

"We can't do this here," she whispered.

And he, ever the gentleman, always concerned about being seen doing the right things in the right places, asked, "Why not?"

She shut her eyes. She didn't have an answer. She couldn't think of an answer.

All she could feel was her heart hammering in her chest, and his hand in her hair, and his breath so close that they might as well be kissing. She wished he _would_ kiss her. She pressed her forehead hard against his, furious and desperate all at once. She wanted him to stop this so badly, and just as badly she wanted him to start it, if only so she could blame him later.

He refused to do either. He sat there and he waited and eventually she gave in, like she'd been giving in for eight years.

"I know you're busy," she whispered, touching his lips with her fingertips, "but I think I left something at home."

"Did you?" His lips moved against her fingers as if kissing them. It took all of her willpower not to crawl into his lap. "Is it important, dear?"

She squeezed her eyes shut tighter at the endearment, hating and loving him for using it. He was playing all the right cards and it infuriated her that he was only _now_ making an effort, after things were already finished between them. When his tongue slid out to swirl around and suck on one of her fingers, her breath caught in her chest and she almost moaned out loud.

"Yes," she breathed instead, trying to keep her head about her, "yes, it's very important. It can't wait."

"So you need a ride back?"

She opened her eyes, found his. "Yes. I need a ride back."

 _Just this once._

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 _ **A/N** : Thank you for reading! Just a quick little PSA to let you all know that this story will **not** be J/K-centric. That said, there will, of course, be one more chapter that focuses heavily on them. ;) After that, we're on to other horizons as the summary says…_

 _I really hope you enjoyed this chapter! I had a ton of fun coming up with this AU, and I would love, love, love to hear your thoughts! :) Thank you for reading!_


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N** : Anonymous Iguana, you are more accurate than you know. ;) Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter! Please enjoy the second, and be aware that it is M-rated._

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If Harry suspected anything had happened during his absence from the car, he did not say a word. He simply nodded when Kurt instructed him to drive them across the river and back to the house in Virginia, but Jane watched his face nonetheless, looking for clues she knew wouldn't be there. It was part of the reason why Harry was Jane's favorite, out of all of Kurt's employees. He kept his mouth shut and his eyes averted and when questioned about sensitive matters, his answer was always and unequivocally _I have no comment, thank you_.

Jane would miss him, after she left. He had a quiet presence, so quiet that sometimes you didn't even notice him unless you were looking for him, but that's what Jane loved most about him. He had always been an ally to her, even when it wasn't convenient for him, even when—had Kurt been a more vindictive man—it might've cost Harry his job. All those nights she'd called him from the house and he'd come, without question, without hesitation. He had helped her in ways her divorce attorney hadn't been able to, in ways she never would have asked of her friends. He had been there, on the worst nights, to simply pick her up and drive her away from her life. He had kept her sane.

And though they never spoke of it, she never forgot it.

She watched him in the rearview mirror and she wondered what he thought of her now. Did he think she was pathetic, crawling back to her ex-husband like this not ten minutes after he'd been declared her ex-husband? Did he pity her, she who had so few options in this city? Or did he not care at all?

She wanted to believe the latter was the answer, but she knew better. Harry cared. He always cared.

Perhaps one day she would thank him, but not today. She turned her head out towards the window as they reached the bridge, and kept staring out until she felt Kurt's hand reach across the seat and take hers. She glanced over, questioning, swallowing the urge to pull her hand away when she noticed he was still wearing his wedding ring. She didn't know what they were doing right now, but she knew with every minute that passed, she would regret this decision. A pit had formed in her stomach the moment he'd touched her in the car outside the hotel and it was only expanding the longer they spent together.

Part of her wished she'd just taken him up to her hotel room and done it there, to get this masochistic urge out of the way as quickly as possible. But then she would've had to live in that room for another eighteen hours, and she didn't think she could take that. Surrounded by his smell, his presence, his memory… No. Paradoxical as it was, it was easier to go back to the house to do this. Just one last time.

A half-hour later, and they had arrived. Jane hadn't been to the house in months, and it surprised her that it still looked the same. Same lawn, same bushes, same flowers, same paint job. Somehow, in her mind, the place had fallen into disrepair after she'd left. But of course the gardeners had kept coming, and the cleaners, and maybe even the painters, by the fresh look of the window shutters. She stood on the sidewalk and admired the house as Kurt stopped to talk with Harry. It was a gorgeous home, and she would miss it. She knew if she'd fought for it in the divorce, he would've given it to her, but deep down she didn't really want it. She couldn't live here with all the memories, with all the neighbors, with all the prying eyes.

So instead she took the brownstone in New York as her consolation prize.

She wasn't naive; she knew questions would follow her there. She was a public figure who had just had a very unexpected divorce without a hint of financial or sexual scandal—people would come sniffing for the "real" story.

But at least they'd have to hike up to New York to get it from her. By default, Kurt would be the closer, easier target.

"You all right?"

Jane turned at the sound of Kurt's voice, surprised to see Harry and the car already gone. She felt a flash of sadness, for she'd been hoping to get a chance to say goodbye to him, but she quickly pushed it away. It was better this way. Better to make a clean break with him, if not with Kurt.

As they started towards the house, Jane felt Kurt's hand rise to her back, as it had so many times before, and she was almost lulled back to that familiarity before he seemed to remember himself and took his hand away. As they walked on, she couldn't decide if she felt grateful or bereft without his touch, but it hardly mattered, because the moment the door was shut behind them, his mouth was on hers and his hands were a prison around her face.

"Wait!" she gasped, pushing him back, trying to catch her breath as she wiped her mouth. His hands were still holding fast to her cheeks and she had to shove against his chest until he let go. "You have to _wait_ ," she told him. "I need a drink first."

"A drink?" he repeated incredulously, calling after her as she walked away. "Seriously? It isn't even noon."

She didn't answer. It might be eleven in the morning, but she'd wanted alcohol since the moment she'd woken up. He was lucky she hadn't shown up to their signing half-drunk. And he was insane if he thought they were going to do this sober.

"What do you have in here?" she called, yanking the fridge open. She immediately shut it: the smell of rotting food was overpowering. "Jesus," she swore under her breath. The house might look nice from the outside, but it was falling apart within. "Been sleeping in your office again, congressman?"

"No," he muttered, but he said it in that stubborn way that told her he was lying. As if the evidence hadn't spoken for itself.

"Okay, what's the emergency stash? Scotch?" she guessed, naming his preferred.

He nodded. "I think there's some vodka in the freezer, too. And—" He hesitated for just a second. "—a little of your bourbon's still here."

"Is it?" she asked, surprised. He'd never liked bourbon. It was always her drink; he rarely ever stole sips, even when they were out of everything else. She frowned. "Wait, what do you mean, 'a little'?"

He looked away, shrugging.

"Where is it?" she demanded.

He sighed, but didn't withhold any longer. "Office."

She pushed past him, walking quickly towards the back of the house, and opened the door that was always closed. She could hear him following after her, his slow, heavy steps echoing through the empty house. By the time he stepped inside, she'd already opened half the drawers in his desk and was working on the other half. He saved her some time by tossing her his keys.

She raised her eyebrows, but picked out the correct key without a word. There, inside the bottom right-most drawer of his desk, were a number of private documents and, as she'd hoped, a bottle of Bulleit.

Except it was almost empty.

"What the hell?"

She had not left an almost-empty bottle of bourbon here. She knew that for a fact, because when she'd left, she'd regretted leaving it behind. It had been brand-new, sitting on the kitchen counter, and she'd been torn between wanting to take it with her and wanting to throw it at his head. In the end, she'd done neither. In the end, she'd left it full and unopened on the counter as she'd stormed out.

But now here it was, almost empty, hidden away in his drawer. His locked drawer.

"Have you been drinking my bourbon?" she wondered aloud. The answer was clear in his face and, to his credit, he didn't attempt to lie. She yanked out the cork and took a swallow. It burned deliciously going down, and watching him watch her burned even better. " _When_ have you been drinking it?" she pressed, feeling the alcohol start to work.

"You know when."

She held the bottle out to him as he stepped towards her and he took it, swallowing hard, sucking in a sharp breath afterward. He tried to pass it back, but she refused to take it.

"When?" she demanded.

He closed his eyes and took another, smaller swallow.

"When I miss you," he answered, and despite herself, she smiled.

She took the bottle from his hands and swallowed more. More. More and more, until she felt her head start to grow a little cloudy.

"And when's that, hm?" she asked, taking a step towards him. When she was close enough, she rested her free hand on his chest. "When do you miss me?"

"All the time."

She clicked her tongue, unimpressed. "Don't romance me, Weller. Neither of us are here for that, and you know it."

"Fine." He opened his eyes, snatched the bourbon bottle out of her hand, and swallowed hard. "Late nights," he said when he surfaced. "Early mornings. An afternoon here or there."

A smirk pulled at one side of her mouth. "Interesting. As I recall, you were always too busy for afternoons."

"Yeah, well, a man can change, Jane."

"Is that so? Is afternoon your time now? Well, you may be in luck…"

She took the bourbon from him, and swallowed all but the dregs at the end. She could feel it spreading, could feel her fingers start to tingle, complementing her swimming head. Clumsily, she reached around him to set the bottle down on the desk. There was one precious swallow left in there, and she wanted to keep it safe. His hands rose to her hips as she reached around him, ostensibly holding her steady, and she grinned at the play, leaning closer, brushing her body against his, just enough to make him groan softly in the back of his throat.

As she straightened up, she lifted a hand to his face, holding his chin. She brushed her fingers against his beard, dragging her thumb against his lower lip, remembering the car, remembering him sucking on her fingers. Just the thought of it made her body clench in anticipation.

His hands were migrating around her waist, making their very obvious way to her ass, and she only smiled, leaning forward to kiss him. He tasted like bourbon and he tasted delicious. She was moving slow, though, and before she could come up with a game plan, his tongue was in her mouth and his hands were squeezing her ass and she was moaning, pushing herself against him. She could feel him starting to get hard through his pants and she moved closer, grinding herself shamelessly against him. His tongue was busy in her mouth and after her own explorations, she knew why. After a minute more of it she pulled away, laughing.

"You like it, don't you?" she taunted. "You _like_ the bourbon. Tell me, how does it taste?"

"It tastes sour and smokey and angry." He gripped her ass harder. "Just like you."

She smirked, adjusting herself against his hardening erection. "I know I should be insulted by that, but instead I'm just really, really turned on."

"At least I can still do one thing right."

"Oh, no," she murmured, linking her hands behind his neck. "I think you can do plenty of things right, congressman."

He smiled briefly, a little lost at the title, not sure if she was mocking him or encouraging him. She didn't answer. She wasn't drunk enough yet for this question. Once, when they'd been newlyweds, she'd confessed it sober. But that was a lifetime ago now.

She reached up to kiss him, running her nails through his hair to distract him. It worked: he retaliated by hauling her against him, so roughly it made her think she might have little bruises from his fingerprints on her ass tomorrow morning, and that thought only made her hotter. He was more than just a little hard now, and they were moving in earnest together, bodies slipping and sliding despite all the clothes between them.

She was glad he kept going, and did not let up, because she knew if he let up they would have to talk and she did not want to talk. She didn't want to talk about what they were doing, or what they would be doing later, but most importantly, she did not want to give him time to suggest they do it somewhere else. She did not want to go upstairs to their old bedroom; she did not want to remember the last time they'd been in that room; she did not want to remember the fighting or the tears or the sex that had been far too angry and punishing. She just wanted to live here, in this madness after, and enjoy it.

He must have thought the same, because in minutes, he was hauling her up into her arms—not to carry her off, but to deposit her on the desk—and she nearly thanked god out loud for this gift. He was tearing through the buttons on her shirt, and she was shoving his suit jacket off, and by the time his hand was up her skirt and his fingers were inside her, she finally found the voice to ask for what she really wanted. She'd finished the last of the bourbon while he'd been unzipping his pants, and it had given her the boost she needed.

"I don't want it like this."

He looked up from the condom he was opening—she had no idea where he'd even gotten that—and all at once she watched his face drain of excitement and then fill with dread.

"I—I meant the position," she rushed to say, not wanting to lose this momentum they'd built. She was having some trouble with her words, but that was better than having trouble with her scruples. "I don't want this position, that's all."

"Then how do you…?"

He trailed off, unsure, and if she hadn't already been red in the face from all the booze, she would've been from embarrassment. It made sense that he didn't remember, given that they hadn't revisited this particular fetish since their honeymoon. She had had fantasies about it, after he'd first started campaigning. It had turned her on, to be married to someone who suddenly had a title and status and _authority_. That's what had gotten to her, and even to this day, she didn't know exactly why. She'd never felt a particular affinity for a dominant/submissive relationship.

But she did have a very particular affinity for the thought of her husband bending her over a desk and fucking her.

Well, ex-husband.

It was so juvenile, so _conventionally_ dirty, and yet it turned her on without fail. She used to think of it, sometimes, during their more lackluster lovemaking. If he couldn't make her come, her own filthy thoughts of him could. She had been hoping, this one last time, that she wouldn't have to rely on thoughts anymore.

"Are… Are you sure?" he asked warily, after she explained what she wanted.

She wanted to shake him, wanted to demand why he was questioning of every single little thing she wanted today, but instead she just smiled, leaned up to kiss him, and whispered, "Why don't you find out?"

Then she turned around and walked around to the front of the desk, leaning over it just enough to brace her fingertips against its surface. She looked at him and he stared back, his eyes burning into hers as if somehow that would give him the upper hand.

"I can always go back to the hotel if you don't want it like this," she offered. "I'm sure I can find some takers at the bar."

It was as easy as that.

She grinned as he started towards her, but once he disappeared behind her, she refused to look back. She could sense him there, just inches away, and she relished in the taunting, knowing she would never feel this same anticipation again. Finally he reached out, lifting a hand to brush her hair to the side. She shivered when his lips met her ear.

"We don't have very long," he whispered, pressing a kiss to the soft skin behind her ear. "There are a lot of people in the house and they'll start looking for us soon if we don't head back out…"

Jane closed her eyes, remembering, wondering how he had read her mind like this after so many years of miscommunications.

In the early days, when they'd first moved to DC, their weekends had been almost exclusively filled with fundraising benefits. At first it was small things—little dinner parties with lowly DC types; trips back to Pennsylvania to meet with the public—but it didn't take long for the guest lists to lengthen and become exclusive. Kurt always liked to keep that personal touch, though, and so they hosted nearly all of their fundraising efforts in their own home.

It had been nerve-racking at first, to have so many important Washington politicians and influencers and journalists in their house. Early on, he'd been as nervous as her, and so she'd always found a moment, usually as the cocktail hour was winding down, to pull him away from this conversation or that on the pretense that she had something very important to discuss in private. She'd sneak him away into this very office, and once the door was closed, they could have a few precious minutes to themselves: to gossip, to debrief, to laugh, to fool around… He never let that get very far, aware as he always was that there were other people who not only needed his time, but paid plenty for it. He always indulged her, though, at least in the early days. He liked their little escapes; sometimes he even instigated them.

But as he continued to amass respect and connections and election wins, things began to change. He became adept at handling donors and allies and rivals alike. He knew how to talk to the entire spectrum of attendees, from campaign volunteers right up to cabinet members. He didn't need her to pull him away from tough conversations anymore; in fact, he jumped at the challenges, and if she tried to interrupt on his supposed behalf, she entertained her politely for a moment or two before returning to the real matters at hand. More and more, he didn't have time for her during those nights unless she was standing smiling by his side, playing the gracious and beautiful and mostly silent hostess.

Once, she'd tried to reach for some of that old magic again. He'd been in negotiations with some California senator over dinner and she had pulled him away on the pretense of having an important call waiting. He hadn't been happy about being interrupted, but he'd followed after her nonetheless, pestering her with questions about the call that she pointedly avoided, all the while worrying aloud that the senator he'd left behind would be putty in someone else's hands by the time he returned.

She'd been certain that once they got inside, he would realize what she was doing, would remember all the times before, but that wasn't the case. He made a beeline for the phone, and when he heard only a dial tone on the other end, he demanded to know who had called and why she'd let them hang up so fast. She had started to laugh, but he wasn't smiling when demanded to know why she hadn't come to find him sooner. She should've taken that as a sign, but they were on such different wavelengths at that point that they might as well have been speaking different languages. He was searching through the voicemails and the recent call list when she'd sidled up beside him, one hand reaching for his chin to pull his mouth to hers, the other slipping into his back pocket. He'd jerked away in surprise and then, bewildered, he'd stared at her, and then at the phone, and then back to her. She'd watched the realization dawn on his face just a half-second before he started yelling.

Luckily, the chatter of a hundred people outside masked the sound of his raised voice inside the office, so no one else ever knew what he'd said, but she never forgot it. _Is this what turns you on now? Fucking over my career for these stupid games?_ He had never yelled at her before, not once, and she flinched that night as if he'd smacked her. She'd tried to come up with an explanation, but as usual she was too slow, and he was out the door before she'd even gotten a sentence out. He hadn't slammed the door, but he might as well have. They did not speak to each other for the rest of the night after that.

In fact, they never spoke of that night again. He never apologized, and the most naive part of her still resented him for it, still expected better from him. He had done worse since, and yet that evening was always the memory that rankled the most, because it had been a harbinger of all the rest.

Jane squeezed her eyes shut harder, focusing on the present, on his lips on her neck, telling herself this was the apology she'd been waiting for. She knew it was the closest she'd ever get.

"How long do we have?" she whispered, lifting a hand from the desk so she could slide it behind his neck and pull him closer. "Is anyone looking for you yet?"

"Mm, hope not," he whispered, sliding his hands beneath the back of her shirt. "But it's hard to tell, so I need you to be quiet." His tongue licked along the curve of her ear. "Can you be quiet for me, dear?"

Jane opened her mouth to answer, but before she could, one of his hands slid to her front, pinching her nipple, and she had to trap a yelp in a whimper.

"Good." He nuzzled her neck appreciatively, his voice heavy and low. "That's a good girl."

She closed her eyes, trying to control her breathing as his hands slid to her front, fondling her breasts. She craned her neck back, searching for his lips blindly, so that when he pulled on her other nipple, she could let his mouth swallow her moan.

His hands slid down from her chest to stomach, and then roamed, feeling all around. It took her a moment to realize he wasn't just feeling her up, and when she felt her skirt start to loosen, his hands opening the zipper, she pulled her mouth from his.

"Leave it," she whispered, breathless.

She watched him try to swallow, at an uncharacteristic loss for words.

"Someone might walk in," she murmured, placing her hand over his. "Or we might be needed out there. We'll have to dress quickly. It's safer if we just…" She pulled her zipper back up, and moved his hands to the hem of her skirt instead. "Like this," she told him, and she then she bent over.

She could hear him groan aloud at the visual, and it made her grin. She knew he'd like this.

He squeezed her hips, bending over low to press a kiss to her upper back in appreciation.

"We should get divorced more often," he whispered in her ear, and she couldn't stop herself from laughing.

She could feel him smiling when he kissed her shoulder again, just before he straightened up again, and pulled her back against him by the hips. She moaned at the feel of him hard against her, and rubbed her ass against him in response, egging him on, desperate for more as she lifted herself up again, twisting her neck so her lips could find his once more. He complied as if reading her mind: burying one hand in her hair to keep her mouth attached to his, and pushing the other up between her legs. She moaned at the feel of his fingers inside her again, spreading her wide and pushing inside. He quickly built up a rhythm, pushing two fingers inside hard and fast, accompanied by intermittent swipes of the edge of his thumb against her clit.

"Fuck," she whimpered, breaking their kiss when she couldn't take it anymore. "Kurt…"

"Shh." His lips were at her cheek, her temple, her ear. His breath was hot against her skin, drenched in bourbon. "We don't want anyone to overhear us now, do we?"

"No," she breathed, closing her eyes, trying to focus. His rhythm had slowed to a leisurely pace now, but she knew what that meant; she knew what was coming. "We don't want anyone to hear."

"Good," he whispered, and she groaned when he pulled his fingers out of her, as if to beg, _Please don't punish me_. Not ten seconds later, she was rewarded.

" _Fuck_!"

She couldn't have kept in the shout even if she'd tried, even if there had truly been a party in full swing on the other side of the door that might've overheard. It had been nearly half a year since they'd last slept together, and though she hadn't exactly _forgotten_ what it used to feel like, she certainly hadn't thought about it in a while. But no matter: he was reminding her now. With every push of his body inside hers, she found herself moaning louder and falling further forward onto the desk, until she was bent fully at the waist and holding herself upright only by her forearms resting on its surface. She'd shoved papers and pens and even a stapler aside in her desperation to find some purchase; it was lucky he didn't use a desktop computer, otherwise that would've been wrecked too. Not that he would've complained.

He was singleminded in his task, even shoving her skirt up over her waist so he could get a better angle, and gripping her shoulder to keep her in place—either bent fully at the waist so he could drive into her hard, or hauled up against him so he could kiss her and touch her and tease her. She let him take the lead, not wanting nor needing control in this moment. After so many years, he knew what to do, and as this was the last time, she trusted him to finally do it right.

He didn't disappoint.

* * *

They didn't say anything after, but stood there panting, sweating, still joined and bent over the desk. She had supported herself on her forearms near the end, and they were sore from the pressure, so she rested her forehead against the wood instead, her sweat making the surface slick. She closed her eyes when she felt his arm curling around her stomach, hugging her to him—but only for a moment, as their bodies were too tired for much else.

After what felt like a lifetime, he straightened up and withdrew, careful with the condom until it was in the trash. When he turned back around, she was still where he'd left her: naked and bent over the desk. She had her cheek against the wood now, her face turned in his direction.

Their eyes met and he asked, genuinely curious, "Do you really want more?"

She laughed softly, shaking her head against the wood. "No. I'm just having trouble getting up."

"Well, I'm a little too old to be carrying you places."

"I'm not asking you to," she replied, though she, like him, was smiling at the memories. The day they'd moved into this house, after the movers had left and they'd stopped marveling at what a wonderful home they would make together, he'd carried her up the stairs and into their as-yet-furnished bedroom. They'd made love on the wood floor that night and the next morning. The second day, they put the bed frame together and carried the mattress up, and ever since then, they'd reverted to being no different than any other couple. Even their divorce wasn't too surprising, given the rate at which most marriages fell apart these days. They'd lasted longer than most, and if nothing else, that was a point of pride. Or at least it should be.

But as he walked back towards her, all she could think about were all the years they'd wasted together.

She closed her eyes as he tugged on her hips, trying to get her to straighten up. She groaned at the entreaty to move.

"I'm not carrying you," he reminded her sternly, and finally she straightened up.

They stood like that for a minute, his front to her back, his hands sliding from her hips to her stomach. She closed her eyes when one slid between her legs, and leaned her head back against his shoulder, allowing his mouth on her neck once more. She was still warm between his fingertips, but he missed the feeling of himself dripping from her. He would miss a lot of things, once this day ended.

He couldn't resist: one of his fingers pressed closer, teasing for more, but she mumbled in disagreement, twisting away. He started to apologize, but it was too late, she had stepped away and—he knew without seeing her face—begun to think about leaving. He might only have ten seconds left, he knew. Or maybe, if he played his cards right, if he negotiated as well as he'd been taught to, he could eek out a few more hours. He turned to face her, but knew immediately—in a way he never had before when they'd fought—that she didn't want to be talked to. She didn't want to be touched. She wanted to be left alone, he knew it instinctively, and though it went against every other instinct he had, he left her alone. He cast his eye to the floor and then, not being able to think of anything better to do, he sat down atop it, using the front of his desk as a backrest.

He waited for her to leave, but instead, against all logic, she took a seat beside him. She closed her eyes and rested her head against his shoulder. And then she said, "I'm starving. Can we order pizza?"

* * *

They ended up on the living room couch, half-dressed, using napkins for plates and the coffee table as a footrest. It reminded her of the first night they'd moved in; they'd gotten take-out Chinese and eaten it on this very floor. That felt like an eternity ago, and when she said as much, he nodded silently, not meeting her eye. She took the hint and stopped talking then, and they ate in silence beside one another until the food was gone. It was only as she was getting up to throw away the trash that he finally spoke.

"If I had quit, would we still be married?"

The question caught her off-guard, and she froze for a moment, halfway between sitting and standing. She was suddenly very aware of the fact that he was still wearing his wedding ring, whereas she hadn't worn hers in months.

"I don't know," she said finally, sitting back down. She shifted so she was facing him head-on. He deserved that much, at least. "I've thought about it too," she admitted, "and I still don't know, because… Well, it's a moot point, isn't it? You never would have quit, would you? Even if I'd asked you to?"

"You're not answering my question."

"Well, you're not answering mine either, are you, Kurt?"

He blew out a breath, hard and angry, and she knew he was battling between blaming her for this conversation and blaming himself. She sat, trying to brace herself for whatever was to come. She wasn't scared of yelling anymore. They'd spent entire days of their lives yelling at each other.

But when he spoke this time, it was softly. When he looked at her, something in his face had changed, and she could not turn away.

"Was it really that bad?" he asked quietly. "Was our marriage that terrible?"

She shook her head, shifting away, letting out her own sigh. _This_ was why she shouldn't have come today. Worse than the sex were the conversations like this one, after everything had already been all said and done. They could not litigate this all over again. They could not keep having these same fights into eternity.

She opened her mouth to argue that point before she realized she didn't have to argue anything. She didn't have to answer him, or answer _to_ him, not anymore. They were divorced, and so she no longer had any obligations except to herself. So instead of fighting another long, meaningless fight, she got up, threw out her trash, and then headed towards the stairs.

"I need to shower before I go," was all she bothered to say by way of explanation.

He didn't follow after her. She half expected it, and took the stairs slowly, just waiting to hear the floorboards start to creak beneath his added weight. But he didn't move, and by the time she'd reached the top of the stairs, she'd stopped listening for him. She moved through their bedroom without looking at the bed, and shut the bathroom door firmly behind her, avoiding the mirror as she stripped out of her clothes and turned on the shower.

The hot water was a revelation, and for a few minutes she just stood there beneath its spray, letting it coat her and rinse her and slough off what felt like pounds of dead skin and countless foolish hopes. Then she reached for the soap and began cleaning herself of him in earnest.

She pretended not to hear, some time later, when the bathroom door opened. She had shampoo in her hair and so she kept her eyes closed as she lathered it in and then washed it out, but she could sense him there even without being able to see him. He was lingering just inside the door, but she was unable to tell if that was because he wasn't sure if he was allowed in, or if he wasn't sure if he _wanted_ in. She finished conditioning her hair, and then, as if she were getting out, she pushed open the door to the shower.

When she didn't step out, he took the invitation for what it was.

The second time was slower, gentler. She could taste the apology in the way he kissed her, could feel it in the way he held her, could hear it in the way he whispered, if not _I'm sorry_ , at the very least _I love you_. She didn't say it back, mostly because she had promised long ago to stop lying to him, but also because she knew he didn't truly mean it. He _thought_ he meant it—that much was obvious—but the very fact that he felt the need to say it, now at the very end, only proved how meaningless it was.

But it was comforting, nonetheless, so she let him say it. She let him kiss him and hold her and, though she didn't let him finish inside her, she let him make love to her. It seemed to both take a very long time and also be over in an instant. She would try to remember, later, what it felt like, but the memory would be gone, lost in the heat and the steam of the shower, and all she'd be able to remember afterwards were his too-little too-late whispers.

All things considered, it was a kinder ending than most marriages got. Part of her was even grateful for it.

* * *

 ** _A/N_** _: Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed this chapter. I apologize for the wait with this one; finishing up this chapter made me realize just how much of a struggle it is for me to write romantic j/k content these days. It just doesn't come willingly anymore. However, the plot demanded it, so I hope this chapter delivered! Thankfully, we (along with Jane) will be moving on to greener pastures soon enough... :)_

 _If you have any thoughts on this chapter, please leave a review! They make my day. :D_


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N** : So sorry for the delay with this chapter! I haven't had much time to write recently, and I've been juggling way too many WIPs. That said, I'm really loving exploring this universe and I hope you all are too. :) If you're sticking around, please enjoy!

Jo: I have no idea _what_ in my writing history could ever point you towards the conclusions you came to in your last review. XD So glad you like Harry! There's more of him in the chapter. :)

* * *

The car was already waiting for her when she stepped outside the house. It idled silently just beside the curb, and she had to tamp down the urge to run to it like a getaway car. She could feel Kurt behind her, watching from inside the house, but she refused to look back. She'd spent all afternoon slipping back into the past; she couldn't allow herself to do that anymore.

She nodded to Harry as he got out of the driver's seat to open the back door for her. He shut it gently behind her, and without pause, without looking towards the house, he returned to the driver's seat. Though he knew where she would end up tonight, he gave her the courtesy of pretending he didn't. Of pretending today was a day like any other.

"Where to, ma'am?"

Jane found his eyes in the rearview mirror. "I'd like to wander a bit, Harry. If you have time."

"All the time in the world," he assured her, shifting the car into drive. Then he pulled away from the curb without another word, and they let the house and everything in it fade in the background until it was unrecognizable.

* * *

It was dusk by the time Harry returned her to her hotel, though to Jane it felt much later. This day had sapped more energy from her than she knew she had, and the only thing that got her out of the car and into the lobby was remembering that she was already all packed for the next morning. All she had to do tonight was fall asleep.

The elevator was blessedly empty when she stepped in, and she rode it patiently up to the twentieth floor. There was no one in the hall, either, though she could hear the faint sounds of various TV shows coming through the doors to some of the rooms as she walked by. Canned laughter echoed behind her as she found her own door, swiped it open, and stepped inside.

She didn't turn on the lights. She didn't want to see anything, much less herself. She toed out of her shoes, slid off her skirt, and stripped off her tights, shirt, underwear, and bra. She thought about opening her suitcase for a pair of pajamas and then decided against it. She crawled into bed naked and tried very hard not to think of anything at all.

* * *

The text came hours later, just before midnight, when she was still wide awake but trying to convince herself she was near sleep. She hadn't turned off her phone, and the buzz on the nightstand made her jump. She reached for it immediately, her eyes straining against the bright spot in the darkness to read Kurt's text. It was just one line.

 _I hope you have a safe flight tomorrow_.

Jane shut her eyes, letting the bright screen imprint itself on the insides of her eyelids for a few seconds before she made herself sit up and address it. She thought briefly of ignoring the text—after this afternoon, who knew what he was really fishing for?—but instead she decided to simply take it at face value, as she hoped he might had their positions been reversed.

 _Thank you_ , she wrote back.

She waited a few minutes to see if there was a reply, and when there wasn't, she set her phone to silent and placed it face-down on the nightstand. She fell asleep within the hour, and when she woke up the next morning, the first thing she did was erase his number from her contacts.

* * *

She left for the lobby early, anticipating some last-minute issue with check-out, but the process went as smoothly as it always had. She took her bags with her through the entrance, and she was just about to signal to the doorman to call her a cab, when she recognized the car parked at the curb. When she saw Harry she felt a rush of relief and affection so strong it nearly stopped her in her tracks. And then, when she realized the likely reason why he'd come to her aid, she did stop in her tracks. She crossed her arms.

"Did Kurt send you?" she called out.

"No, ma'am." Harry shook his head solemnly. "I sent myself. Thought you might need a ride."

"Well, that's very kind of you, Harry, but I can take a cab…"

"I'd like to drive you, ma'am." He held open her door. "If you don't mind."

There was no point in arguing, so she didn't. She walked over, let him take her suitcase, and slid into the seat while he closed the door behind her. She sat cocooned in the car for a few seconds while he piled her suitcases into the trunk. Then he shut it, and slid into the driver's seat.

"Reagan?" he asked.

She nodded, turning her head to look out the window as he pulled onto the street. It was a quiet ride to the airport. Harry kept the music off—unusual for him—and Jane appreciated the silence. Her life would become very, very noisy soon. She was grateful that he was trying to contribute to the brief calm.

All too soon, Harry brought the car to a stop outside the terminal. Without a word, he put the car in park and rose deftly from his seat, making his way around the trunk to unload her bags. Jane continued to stare out the window, watching in silence as the men and women streamed around her, running to flights or hugging loved ones. All at once she didn't want to get out of the car. As much as she didn't want to be here—she didn't want to be anywhere else, either. She wanted to hide in the car the way she'd hidden in the house yesterday. She wanted more time to stave off reality.

But then Harry was opening her door, offering a hand to help her out, and she knew she couldn't wallow in the dark anymore. She stepped out, watched as he shut the door behind her, and then before he could step away and return to the driver's seat, she trapped him in a too-tight hug.

He froze for a moment, surprised, but then his arms came up to encircle her back as well. He held her close, and she shut her eyes, squeezing his shoulders. It was hard to believe this could very well be the last time she'd ever see him.

"Thank you, Harry. For everything."

She felt him twitch in her arms, shrugging. "Just doing my job, ma'am."

"No." She shook her head, not able to let him off the hook. She might never see him again, and she wanted him to know just how much he meant to her. "You did so much more than your job, Harry, and I'll always be grateful to you for that. I don't know what I would've done without you these past few years."

"You'll find another driver, ma'am, I'm sure."

"But not such a good friend."

Harry went still in her grasp, evidently not having expected such a response. Jane smiled to herself, and hugged him tighter for a moment.

"I mean it," she whispered, leaning up on her tiptoes to reach his ear. "I'm sorry I never told you earlier."

For a moment, they were suspended there together, but then, in her periphery, Jane caught the flash of a camera and instinctively shut her eyes, turning her face down and into Harry's jacket. So it was beginning already. She hadn't expected it so soon, but then again, she had been foolish to underestimate the press. Kurt had probably had his office put out the statement yesterday, so he could have the first word on it. Truly, she was lucky reporters hadn't been lying in wait outside her hotel. Instinctively, she held Harry tighter, as if he were a shield behind which she could hide.

"You keep this up much longer, you're going to get me painted as a home-wrecker, ma'am."

She smiled into his jacket, refusing to let go. "Can't they think of something more creative for me than sleeping with the help?"

"Evidently not."

"Tell Charlie I'm sorry for the rumors."

Harry laughed. "Charlie doesn't mind rumors. They give him something to complain about."

"I thought he already had plenty to complain about when it came to you," Jane teased, finally pulling away. "How long has it been since he asked, by the way?"

Harry made an ugly noise in the back of his throat, looking away.

"You should say yes already," she said, smacking his shoulder lightly. "Don't leave him hanging like this."

Harry sighed, looking at the ground as he stepped back. "Ma'am…"

"And stop calling me 'ma'am'," she added. "I'm not your employer anymore."

"What would you prefer I call you, then?"

"Well, if you're going to be difficult, you can call me Ms. Doe. If you feel like being my friend, you can call me Jane." She reached for her suitcases, slinging one over her shoulder. "And you can invite me to your wedding once the date is set," she finished.

Harry nodded in understanding, and Jane smiled briefly at the acquiesce. So this wouldn't be the _very_ last time she'd see him. Just that little fact somehow made leaving easier. She adjusted her bags, and then caught Harry's eye once more. There was one last thing she needed to clear with him before she left. She knew people were watching, some probably listening, and she should've said this in the car, but now it was too late. It had to be said. She couldn't leave this place with a guilty conscience.

She reached for Harry one more time, whispering into his shoulder to hide the plea from those watching.

"You'll look after him, won't you?" Her voice was strained suddenly, her throat rasping. "He doesn't have anyone to look after him now. He's going to be all by himself down here."

"Don't worry." Harry's arm was strong at her back, his voice as firm as ever. "I'll keep an eye on him, ma'am. I promise."

She didn't correct his honorific this time. Instead she pressed a kiss to his cheek, whispered her thanks, and hurried towards the airport before she could be caught on camera crying.

* * *

The flight was easy. No one recognized her—or if they did, they kept it to themselves. There weren't any phones in her face, and she took care to keep her head turned towards the window the entire flight, so that if there were prying eyes, she didn't have to meet them.

She caught a cab outside LaGuardia, and as it snaked its way too quickly and then too slowly through Manhattan traffic, she found herself thinking of Harry again, wondering where he was driving Kurt at the moment. Or if he wasn't driving him, what he was doing while he waited. The last time Jane had inquired after his downtime, Harry mentioned he was trying to teach himself sign language. Something to do with Charlie's uncle being deaf. Jane smiled to herself as she looked out the window. Harry sure liked to drag his feet, but she knew eventually he'd make his way to the altar.

She paid the cab fare in cash, ignoring the driver's parting call of, _Hey, don't I know you from somewhere?_ She grabbed her suitcases from the back before he could help her, and lugged them up the half set of stairs to the front door of the brownstone. She didn't fumble with her keys as she had the first time she'd fled here over a year ago. No, she'd been coming so frequently since divorce proceedings had begun that this place had become more of a home than the house in Virginia was.

Shutting the door behind her, Jane relished the sound of the thick bolt sliding into place. She was safe here. Safe from everyone and everything, and answerable to no one but herself.

* * *

She spent much of the day unpacking the boxes she hadn't gotten to over the last few weeks. She had shipped everything up from Virginia a few months ago, and had been slowly unpacking a box or two during each subsequent trip up. She had meant to finish everything by the time she formally moved back, and while she'd clearly missed the mark, she was relieved to have something concrete to do. She didn't like to think about the quiet hours she'd spend here over the next few days, once the boxes were unpacked and she was all alone, without any work to occupy her time.

So for now, she took a leaf from Kurt's book, and she focused on the problem in front of her.

She unpacked each and every box, and when she finished doing that, she set about breaking down the boxes. She had a pile nearly as tall as herself when she'd finished, but she didn't move to take them outside to the recycling. She didn't want to run into another camera.

Instead, she went about organizing things. She organized her closet, and her bedroom, and her bathroom. Then she organized the kitchen. Then she organized her office. She didn't finish the last chore, not before the world around her got dark. She thought briefly of turning on a lamp to continue, but instead she gave up. She was exhausted suddenly. Not just physically, not just emotionally, but psychically. Her mind just would not let her continue.

Which was fine by her.

She grabbed a six-pack out of the fridge and went to bed.

The long day turned into a long, long night.

* * *

By midnight, she had finished the beers, and by twelve-thirty she was thinking about calling him. She knew it was a bad idea. She knew it was _stupid_ , not to mention desperate, and desperate urges like this were exactly why she'd deleted his contact information from her cell phone that morning.

But just because she'd deleted his number didn't mean she'd forgotten it. Once you memorized a string of digits, it was very hard to erase them from your mind. Impossible even.

She closed her eyes and recited them in her head. Mercifully, her phone was downstairs, on silent and hidden in the bottom of her purse, where she'd left it hours ago. She hadn't looked at her phone once today, and while she hadn't thought about it while she'd been working, now she wondered.

Had he called her during the day? Texted?

Was he lying in bed somewhere, unable to sleep, thinking of her?

She groaned, shoving her fists against hard against her forehead. _Stop being an idiot_. She'd already fallen back on old habits yesterday with him; she couldn't do it two days in a row. She couldn't do it _again_ —not ever. That was the point of getting divorced.

She knew she hadn't made a mistake where her marriage had been concerned; it had been deteriorating for years, and ending it had been the right choice. She'd felt lonely for so long, and yet—she'd never been _this_ alone.

Turning onto her side, she shut her eyes and waited for sleep. A half hour… An hour… Sleep didn't come. It was ridiculous. She and Kurt hadn't slept in the same bed in months, and yet _now_ she was having trouble sleeping by herself?

As the clock on her bedside inched towards two AM, she gave up on all pretense of trying to get to sleep. If she was going to be awake, it was better to be working than to be lying in bed doing nothing. She gathered up the empty bottles around the room, stuffed them into their cardboard holder, and made her way downstairs.

In the front hall, she was met once more by that enormous pile of deconstructed cardboard boxes, and she decided all at once that it was time to clean things up. If not in her mind, at least in her house. She gathered as many of the boxes as she could, and pushed open the front door. The street was silent, illuminated only by the streetlights. She had been worried about cameras before; now, she barely spared a thought for them. She might be somewhat famous, at least in political circles, but she wasn't a national celebrity. There would be no paparazzis hiding in the bushes or waiting on the steps. She thanked herself once more for getting out while she still could. Had he risen any further in public life, it would've only been harder. She'd gotten out when the getting out was still possible.

Her purse was still waiting for her on the kitchen counter when she came back inside. She had almost forgotten about it, in her clean-up flurry. But there it was, right where she'd left it. She thought about turning her back on it and going up to bed, but she knew she wouldn't be able to sleep, and would only keep thinking of it. Why not sate her curiosity, just for a moment?

She stepped toward the counter, not sure what she was expecting as she reached for her purse. A lot of texts from friends, both those in the know and those out of it. Missed calls—maybe a couple voicemails. Emails, yes. A lot of emails.

But when she pulled out her phone there was nothing.

Not one email, not one text, not one missed call or voicemail or anything else. She stared down at the phone, dumbfounded. She understood Kurt keeping his distance, but everyone else? Not one person had called her to ask how she was once they'd gotten the news? No one had texted to offer support or sympathy or even to say "Fuck him"? Not even a single journalist had been interested in hearing what inside information she was able to offer?

The time on her phone read 2:12 AM, and she stared at those numbers so long in disbelief that she watched them change to 2:13 AM. And then she noticed something, there in the corner.

Her phone was still on airplane mode. She let out a sigh relief, closing her eyes as she swiped up and turned her phone back on. But she kept her eyes closed, scared now that there might truly be nothing. Maybe things were the same as they'd always been—everyone cared about his side of the story, and no one cared about hers. No one worried when she faded into the background behind him; no one wondered what she was thinking. Everyone just assumed he'd speak for them both, like usual.

When she opened her eyes, though, there were people that cared. People that were worried and people that were sympathetic and people who, indeed, wanted to know all the juicy details. Not that there were any, really. Except from yesterday afternoon.

She scrolled through all the notifications, searching and searching, but there was nothing from Kurt. Not a message, not a call, nothing.

She told herself that was a good thing. He shouldn't be contacting her and she shouldn't be contacting him. That was the point of divorce, the point of her moving to an entirely different state. The point of splitting apart their properties and bank accounts and everything else—so they never had to talk to each other ever again.

And yet, as she stood there in her empty kitchen in the middle of the night, there was really only one person she wanted to talk to. One person who could commiserate fully—about the loneliness and the strangeness and looming threat of the press.

She went so far as to dial his number, but that was far enough. She shut off her phone before she could hit the green button, shoving it back into her purse. And then she went to get her laptop, and she emailed her therapist. They weren't scheduled to meet until next week, but she trusted he'd be able to make an exception, given the circumstances.

After she finished with that, she shut her laptop and retrieved her phone. For nearly an hour, she scrolled through and read each email and text, and listened to each voicemail. The volume astounded her. Theoretically, she'd always known she'd had people in her corner, but it had been so hard to remember during the divorce—and even during their marriage, after things started to turn. She'd kept it all to herself for so long that sometimes it had felt like she was all alone, trying to crawl out of a hole she'd unknowingly dug for herself.

But now, here, there were people who cared. People who were offering to help. Sure, some of them were fishing for stories to sell, but what did that matter? She'd spent eight years as a politician's wife; she knew how to separate the wheat from the chaff. What mattered was that they were asking after her. What mattered was that they knew her—a hell of a lot better than he did.

She curled herself around her phone, reading over the messages again and again and again. The next time she felt the need to call him in the middle of the night, she'd just look at her phone. Or she'd find someone else to call. There were plenty of people now, who cared about what she had to say.

* * *

 **A/N** : Thanks so much for reading! If you have thoughts, feel free to leave a review! :)


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